


Until death it is all life.

by Craftnarok



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drinking, M/M, Pining, Talking, and finally shagging, i'm terrible at tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:38:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Craftnarok/pseuds/Craftnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever since Flint told Silver about Thomas he hasn't been able to stop imagining Flint with another man. But then that turns into him imagining Flint with him, and it's only been a few days, but Silver thinks he might be about to lose his mind. So he has to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. “Make it thy business to know thyself, which is the most difficult lesson in the world."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dee218](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee218/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Dee218](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dee218/pseuds/Dee218) in the [pirate_prompts_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/pirate_prompts_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Silver can't stop thinking about Flint's confession regarding Thomas. Or to be more exact, can't stop picturing Flint with Thomas, what it feels like to share something like that with another man. It doesn't take long for him to reach a point where he starts to picture Flint's skin under his hands, under his mouth. It becomes a damn near obsession and he needs to do something about it, and soon, cause fuck knows Flint isn't going to make the first move.
> 
> \---------------------------
> 
> Whoops, my hand slipped. Oh Jesus, this got out of hand. I'm not sure the prompt quite needed 12,000 words to be fulfilled, but it happened and now we all have to deal with the consequences. Someone please take my keyboard away from me. _Send help._
> 
> Fic and chapter titles are all quotes shamelessly stolen from Don Quixote. 
> 
> \--------------------------

In the days that followed the first battle for New Providence Island, there was a strange sort of serenity which settled over the resistance fighters. Their victory had been resounding and, although one battle did not win them the war, it gave them time to regroup and plan; to tend to their wounds and breathe deeply with a renewed fervour for life in the face of so much violent death. The house that had belonged to Mrs Barlow had been requisitioned during the past few weeks and transformed into a war office and sanctum, but Silver knew, despite never having set foot in the place, that to Flint it was steeped in far more profound significance, especially now. It was his final refuge from everything that had happened, from what was still to happen, and from what he had become. Silver imagined the shadow of Miranda clung to every surface, her quintessence etched into the furnishings, and possibly, drifting along with the motes of dust suspended in the air, the scent of her still hung, soft and comforting, waiting to embrace him one last time. So when Flint had announced that he was going to go back to the house for one day to catch up on news of the situation on the island from Billy and collect some things, Silver had almost bitten through his tongue to stop the flow of warnings and admonitions, of which Flint was already perfectly aware and which he would undoubtedly shoot down without hesitation. Instead he had simply said, in a tone that brokered no argument, “Fine. But I’m coming too.”

They arrived in the dead of night, swathed in black, and Silver might have laughed at the absurdity of it all if he didn’t feel the prickle of the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as they slipped across the threshold. It was imperative that they remain unseen. This was a terrible idea, fraught with risk, but allowing it was motivated by more than altruism on Silver’s part. While he hoped that being in the house would offer Flint a moment’s peace to settle his mind before their war progressed, he also thought that here there might be more of a chance of sharing further quiet discussion alone with his captain.

Since their night time conversation over a chest of stolen treasure and a shared bottle of rum, Silver’s mind had been whirring round in a maddening loop. It wasn’t so bad to begin with; the looming danger of the battle and the complexity of their plans was enough to distract him, for the most part, from the thoughts and images which intruded on his waking hours. But then they had started intruding on his dreams as well and Silver was close to tearing out his hair as his imagination began to run wild and he struggled to focus on anything else when Flint was close by, as he so often was these days.

It was a curious thing, the way a single, innocuous notion could lodge itself inside one’s brain and slowly bend all other thoughts to fit around it; warping them until what had been equilibrium became imbalance, and things which had meant nothing at all suddenly meant a great deal. This was one such situation. The notion was a simple one: James Flint had once upon a time been in a romantic relationship with a man named Thomas Hamilton. So far so mundane, at least in John Silver’s view. He had seen plenty of things in his time, and he knew full well that some men preferred the company of other men to that of women, or the company of either, or both, or even the company of neither at all. It had never presented a particular concern for him, his attitude towards other people’s own business always leaning towards the laissez-faire, where it did not directly impact on him or offer him the opportunity to apply it to his advantage. The issue in this instance arose from the fact that Silver had never found himself pining for the physical company of another man before. Truth be told, he had never much pined for the company of anyone, occasional feelings of necessity notwithstanding. So when he found himself picturing in unnerving clarity Captain Flint and Lord Hamilton engaged in multiple rather imaginative and compromising positions, which may or may not have been feasible in actual practise, he was unsure quite what to do about it.

To begin with he had allowed himself to wallow in denial. It was natural, he told himself, to be curious about such things. He knew the basics of how such a coupling worked; he had been a sailor after all, and while a handful of quick, hushed encounters behind galleys hardly stirred one’s heartstrings, they did serve to scratch an itch while offering a brief introduction to the less feminine delights the world had to offer. The problem with this apparently unavoidable indulgence of such curiosity regarding the nature of Captain Flint’s past was, of course, that he had no idea what Thomas Hamilton looked like. And so it was that, during one of these moments of quiet contemplation, where he truly hoped that none of his crewmates found him looking glassy-eyed and flushed, he realised with a start that the body he was picturing Flint running his hands down and worshipping with his mouth was his own.

Unhelpfully, the shock of this realisation had not served to curb his wandering thoughts; rather it had seemed to further inflame them. It was because of this that Silver, after much deliberation and not a small amount of lying to himself, determined that what he really needed to do was to find out what Thomas Hamilton had looked like. Perhaps if he could replace his own body with another’s in his mind’s eye it might just make it feel as though there was still some distance between himself and this road to ruin which was so very tantalisingly offering itself up to him.

The morning after their arrival at Mrs Barlow’s house, Silver did indeed find himself alone with Flint once more. Mr Featherstone and Idelle had slipped away back into town, lest their prolonged absences be noted and wondered upon. Billy had headed off who knows where, to stir up who knows what, with his bright eyed and eager new shadow in tow, along with one Jacob Garrett. Silver still needed to have a word with his boatswain about just what he thought he was doing taking liberties with his name ( _‘Long John Silver’ and Black Spots indeed…_ ), but there would be time for that later. For now, Silver had other enquiries on his mind. He was starting to feel as though he might go mad if he didn’t say something. What was it Flint had said? _‘Madness is such a hard thing to define’_. Shit.

“What was he like?” he blurted out finally, when he could no longer contain the need to have his curiosity sated. They were seated at the kitchen table, in silent companionship prior to Silver’s outburst, and the mid-morning sun was streaming in through the windows accompanied by a breeze, warm and languid. Silver had a book propped open and forgotten in front of him, while Flint was sat with his chair-back to the table and his face to the door, the threat of violence now so ingrained in him that even here he could not truly relax.

“Who?” said Flint, not bothering to look up from the boot in his lap which he was currently mending; the quiet domesticity of the situation was stifling.

“Thomas Hamilton,” Silver replied.

Even from over Flint’s shoulder, Silver could see the way his brows drew together and his hands slowed in their work, and he wondered just what in the hell it was he was doing heading down this road. Did he not used to have running through him a vein of self-preservation so wide and deep it might put the Atlantic Ocean to shame? It had begun to feel like a distant memory. _One of these days I really ought to find where I misplaced that_ , he thought.

“I told you what he was like,” Flint sighed, after a moment’s silence. “Or have you forgotten our conversation already?”

“No, of course not, but…in more detail, I mean…specifically, what was he _like_?” Silver knew he was dancing around the question he really wanted to ask, but he was aware that asking it outright would elicit the sort of queries that he did not want to answer. He wasn’t even sure he knew the answer himself, not truly; or perhaps he was simply giving in to a rare moment of intellectual dishonesty by refusing to acknowledge it. He chose to smother the little voice in his mind which repeated his own words back to him: _‘…a pattern is a pattern, and only a fool ignores one because he does not care for the implication.’_ Really most unhelpful.

After a pause, during which Silver could well imagine the expression Flint was likely wearing, he finally replied. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re trying to ask me. I don’t know what answer you’re looking for. Thomas Hamilton was decent and honest, and he loved books and learning languages and discussing philosophy for hours on end. Is that what you want to know?” Flint said, sounding more than a touch irritated.

“Mm…I-Yes, I suppose so. Was he tall?” Silver replied. The question had slipped out before he had had a chance to catch it, and it felt as though his heart had suddenly dropped to somewhere about level with his naval. _Oh fuck_.

“Was he tall?” Flint repeated in an incredulous monotone. He finally lifted his elbow so that it rested on the back of his chair, boot hanging from his raised hand, and turned to face Silver. He looked truly perplexed. “What the fuck does it matter whether or not he was tall?”

Silver swallowed loudly. “It doesn’t really, I just…wanted to get a clearer picture of him in my mind, I suppose; the man who had such an influence on you. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” He looked down at his hands, picking at the dirty quick of one of his fingernails, and concentrated on trying to will away the hot flush that was threatening to creep up to the tips of his ears.

Flint sighed, still looking thoroughly lost at the turn their conversation had taken, but running his thumb over the loose threads he was in the process of unpicking and re-stitching, he said, “Yes, he was tall; a little taller than I, at any rate. Behind the wardrobe, in Miranda’s bedroom, there’s a portrait. If you’re so curious about what he looked like, go and look at that.”

Grasping the suggestion like a lifeline to remove himself from this awkwardness of his own making, Silver clambered to his feet without a word and moved off through the house. The room which he had occupied the previous night he had taken to be the guest room, and so he made his way into the room where he knew Flint had slept. It was simply furnished, but well kept, and not for the first time in his life Silver felt a gentle pang at having nowhere to call a home of his own. Not like this, at any rate. Somewhere lived in and loved in and with quirks and adornments wholly personal to its tenant; an extension of their personality, imbued with something of their soul. _Perhaps one day_.

Trailing his hand across the door frame, then the bed posts, and finally the warm wood of the wardrobe, Silver made his way around the side of it. There was a gap of a few inches between it and the wall and looking down it Silver saw the outline of a large frame draped with a dustsheet. With one hand still leaning on the wardrobe for support he reached in and lifted the frame out to prop it against the wall. Crouching down he pulled the sheet off, lowering himself further to sit with his good leg tucked under him as his balance wavered.

The portrait was clearly well crafted and expensive, although what else would one expect of something which had been commissioned by a Lord? There on the left was the likeness of Mrs Barlow- _Lady Miranda Hamilton_ , he amended in his mind. She had been an elegant woman, beautiful and fine featured. Silver had been struck by her understated beauty when he had met her on the journey to Charles Town, and here it was transformed into something ostentatious and contrived; she looked the perfect Lord’s wife. What the portrait failed to capture, however, was the spark of fierce intelligence which he had perceived in her, and without it the resemblance was left somehow hollow and superficial. He would have liked to have known her more.

His eyes leaving Miranda’s face, Silver fixed his gaze on the true subject of his curiosity. So this was Thomas Hamilton. He did indeed look tall, as well as slender and attractive, with high cheekbones and fair hair; the very picture of aristocratic nobility. It was not what he’d expected, whatever that had been. The James Flint he knew was hard, gruff, and unforgiving, although there was an undercurrent of something softer that was beginning to creep its way to the surface. Somehow, despite how Flint had described him, he had imagined that he would see something of the same hardness reflected in Thomas Hamilton’s visage, but instead he looked refined, gentle, even delicate. Silver considered all of a sudden that Flint must once have been a very different man. It was clear that the loss of Thomas had changed him profoundly, dealt him an almost mortal blow. Perhaps it had, in fact, and he simply hadn’t realised yet that his heart had bled dry years ago, leaving him to pass through life a shade of his former self; a wraith driven to destruction by devastation and grief. An unpleasant thought, Silver considered, but one that he imagined was not entirely baseless. He wondered though if underneath it all, the rage, the pain, the heartache, something of who Flint had been remained.

Silver’s hopes had leapt at Flint’s mention of a portrait, but he found that without having known the real Thomas Hamilton it left much to be desired. It just wasn’t enough, lacking the minute details and personality for which he was searching. The Hamiltons stared out at him, approximated and empty eyed, and he stared back, willing them to speak to him of who they had been, and what it was they had shared with this man they all three had in common. Regardless of its shortfalls, however, Silver spent a good ten minutes sitting before the painting, drinking in his fill of it and trying to imagine Flint loving this man, touching him, venerating him. He wondered whether Lord Hamilton had been muscular like Flint was, under all those formal clothes, or whether he had had freckles or scars or callouses like Flint did. Did he have the same sort of soft smattering of pale hair covering his arms and chest that caught the light when Flint stood just right in the evening sun, giving his outline an ethereal glow? Had Flint been bearded then? Long-haired? Had Thomas run his fingers through them, tugging and stroking and marvelling at the coppery red hues, the flecks of gold?

 _Oh Jesus_.

Silver swayed sideways, leaning his head against the wardrobe with a gentle thump and closing his eyes. This was…entirely not what he wanted. Well, that wasn’t true, but it was entirely not what he needed. There was a war to be fought and he was to fight it standing shoulder to shoulder with his captain; this frustrating and domineering individual whom he now called friend. How could he be expected to do that effectively, to resist the lure of agreeing to things he ought not and endangering them both, if he plunged headfirst into a carnal obsession over the man? Already he was slipping, having allowed Flint to return to this house. Anyone might see them and alert Governor Rogers’ men, just as his loss would be the most devastating to their having any chance of winning the impending conflict. And the most devastating to him. Silver understood the importance of the burden which had been placed upon him and his name, partly of his own making and partly of Billy’s, as well as the great and terrifying extent of his influence over the men. However, he was well aware that he was not yet fully formed and he _needed_ Flint now, just as Flint needed him.

Silver sighed heavily, before he leant forward to re-cover the portrait and slide it back to its safe place hidden behind the wardrobe. _Goodbye to the Hamiltons_ , he thought, once more the secret of Captain Flint and now, by extension, the man who was both his right hand and his voice by proxy. With a groan that spoke of a bone-deep weariness far greater than a man his age deserved, Silver dragged himself upright again. Unthinkingly he trailed his fingertips over the corner of the portrait which was still within reach, offering a silent farewell and beseeching forgiveness for the ruinous thoughts which drew him inexorably towards the man who had once been so very loved. He had been quite serious when he had warned Flint that he might one day be his end, just as Flint had been the end of the Hamiltons. He was starting to see just how true that was. With a final touch, he made his way back out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him, and returned to the kitchen.

***

“He was handsome,” Silver said, re-entering the room and taking his seat once more. “Although I suppose all men look handsome in their portraits, otherwise painters would never earn a living.”

Flint had turned his chair around in Silver’s absence and laid his work across the table. At Silver’s declaration he narrowed his eyes slightly, and he looked calculating and not a little suspicious of Silver’s intentions in bringing up this topic again.

“I only meant,” Silver went on, words tripping off his tongue in a most unhelpful and obvious display of agitation, “I don’t know what I expected really, but one always tends to think of Lords as stuffy, pompous types, with red faces and the sort of hefty guts that are built on the noble sacrifice of many a thousand geese. Clearly that was not the case with the dashing Lord Hamilton.” His face scrunched into a wince before he could stop it and he feared that that one expression alone said more about the depths of his embarrassment than a dozen soliloquies of rambling idiocy.

Flint was staring at him. In all his life, Silver had yet to meet a man with a more impressive repertoire of piercing, withering, and bowel-wateringly terrifying stares than Captain James Flint. It was truly astonishing the way the man could set his eyes ablaze and reduce you to nothing with a single look. This very moment, for example, had Silver fighting everything in his being not to writhe in his chair under the weight of that gaze.

After what might as well have been an age, during which Silver seriously contemplated both the merits and the logistics of using the heavy tome lying before him to beat himself unconscious, Flint spoke again. “I honestly don’t know what to tell you. Are you really that surprised? Thomas’s personality was overabundant with charismatic qualities, but yes, it didn’t hurt that he was also pleasing to the eye.”

“Hmm. You have a preference for blonds then?” Silver said, his own dark curls visible out of the corner of his eyes.

Flint blinked. “We are not having this conversation. Jesus Christ. I was concerned, telling you about Thomas, that you wouldn’t understand or that you might judge me harshly for it. Apparently I failed to take into account the chance that your wits and tact regarding the subject might be limited to those of a schoolboy.”

Silver could feel his face heating up, and he thought that he might actually be able to hear Thomas and Miranda Hamilton laughing at him from behind that closed bedroom door. He wished suddenly, desperately, that circumstances were different and he could simply open the front door and leave this place, without it mattering who might see or recognise him. Indeed, few did know him by his face alone, but once a metal leg had been planted firmly and repeatedly through the face of another man, it did tend to make an impression that lingered. It wouldn’t do to have ‘Long John Silver’ captured and strung up on a gibbet alongside Charles Vane, and within mere days of his birth too. Billy would never forgive him for depriving his story of a middle by turning straight to the end.

Beginning to regret his decision, therefore, to deliberately find himself alone in close quarters with Flint, Silver picked up his book again and buried his nose in it. “Alright, no need to jump down my throat. I was only trying to make light-hearted conversation. My apologies,” he said, forcing his eyes to scan across the words on the page, not taking in the meaning of a single one. He could feel Flint’s eyes still on him, but he ignored him resolutely until he saw, in the periphery of his vision, hands picking up the half-mended boot once again.

A long stretch of time passed in silence, and Silver thought Flint might have forgiven him his odd outbursts, were it not for the uncomfortable feeling of eyes fixed on his face every once in a while. The rash, impulsive part of him was tempted to look up and meet one of those gazes, out of some morbid curiosity as to exactly which brand of stare it was that was boring through his skull; smart money was on judgemental incredulity, he thought, perhaps with a touch of withering condescension thrown in for spice, but Flint was highly gifted at working himself into a rage over the slightest affront, so bowel-watering was always a possibility. He cursed his constant fight against the temptation to play with fire. It truly was a sickness.

***

As the day wore on, Silver attempted to keep himself occupied, but it was difficult. His efforts to concentrate on his book failed, largely because over the top of the pages he could see Flint’s hands working on the boot, then brewing tea, then mending a torn dress which would never be worn again. His hands were dexterous, long fingered and precise in their work, and as the sun moved steadily across the sky the angle of the light changed, illuminating the ochre-coloured hairs that dusted the back of both them and his arms. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, and as his hands rotated with each delicate stitch his tendons tautened and relaxed in turns, and the sinewy muscles of his forearms shifted beneath his densely freckled skin. It was mesmerising and Silver was rather alarmed at the effect it was having on him.

He tried so hard to focus his mind elsewhere, but unbidden images kept creeping into his mind’s eye of those hands in his hair, fingers twisting through his thick curls; his own hands on Flint’s jaw, his neck, his back; his legs wrapped around Flint’s waist, muscles taut and skin slick with sweat. He wondered whether he was so freckled all over and what it might be like to trace constellations on his skin with his fingers and his tongue, sucking hot red marks into his flesh. He had never had another man inside him before, but he imagined it now, what it might feel like to allow someone into you, so close that the boundaries between you blurred and you became almost one thing. More than once he had to close his eyes and count backwards from one hundred, then again by fives, then fours. He even plumped once for reciting in his mind what he could remember of the Lord’s Prayer in Latin, but he had always found something disturbingly thrilling in the sacrilegious, and so he quickly put gods out of his mind and resumed his counting. It worked for a while, but the images always came back, and they were so very clear.

When Flint finished work on the dress, folding it neatly and stowing it in a heavy wooden chest, he set a length of frayed rope down on the table in front of him to be re-twined, and it was at this point that Silver decided that enough was enough. He abruptly shut the book in his hands with a snap and got to his feet, resolving to take a turn about the house and mentally catalogue the things he found there instead. Anything to distract from this torture. Flint looked up at the thud of the closing book, but he said nothing as Silver walked over to the shelves by the fire and began pulling objects from them for closer inspection.

Silver had been right in imagining that his new distraction would banish the thoughts of Flint’s strong arms and nimble hands from his mind, but it had another effect which he had not intended. From the corner of his eye he could see the way that Flint’s face twitched whenever he touched something that held some particular personal significance, and his eyes flickered back and forth between the rope in his hands and Silver’s exploring fingers. The resulting war within Silver made him feel rather childish; he was trapped between the desire to escape the burning scrutiny of Flint’s surveillance, and the knowledge each time it happened that whatever he was holding was somehow important, and therefore suddenly the most interesting thing in the entire room. So he began deliberately seeking such things out, within Flint’s eye line, guessing with an impressive rate of accuracy which objects would induce the greatest reactions. He wasn’t proud of it, but a small, giddy little corner of his mind, for some time neglected and forgotten, quite enjoyed taking the opportunity to play the game of getting a rise out of someone. And what a target. Flint made it deliciously easy to have him riled up and chewing back words of irritation at the slightest provocation. He knew they were friends now, of a sort, and he really ought to refrain from falling into antisocial old habits, but his little game gave him both a way to occupy his mind and, perhaps more importantly, a feeling that some level of power over the situation had returned to his hands.

For close to half an hour this game of Silver’s own devising went on. He was privately rather impressed with Flint’s restraint, as he said nothing until Silver picked up a small ceramic pot, opened it, and sniffed the contents. It looked to be some sort of cosmetic cream, and it smelled vaguely of honey and violets; clearly this was something of Miranda’s, and he did feel a slight twinge of guilt as Flint dropped the rope on the table, pushed his chair back sharply, and walked over to lift it from his hands.

“Enough,” he said simply, as he placed the pot gently back onto the shelf.

Silver saw the subtle widening of his nostrils as he caught the scent of the cream, and he felt chastened enough to offer a quiet apology. “Sorry.”

Flint looked unimpressed, but Silver could have sworn there was a hint of supressed amusement in his voice when he said, “Why don’t you make yourself useful and look through the cupboards for something we could eat, rather than reverting to type and playing the little shit in order to get a reaction.”

 _Damn_.

Lowering his gaze and swallowing at being caught out, Silver nodded, and he made his way past Flint to open the few cupboards and storage jars which he could see. He found some bread under a cover on the counter, not even stale yet, as well as some cheese, some slightly wizened apples and a variety of preserved meats in a cool, dark cupboard. Silently thanking Billy for his foresight, Silver sliced some of each and brought them over to the table, along with a bottle of something which might have been rum.

Flint raised an eyebrow when he saw the bottle, but he kept whatever sardonic comment was clearly on his tongue to himself when Silver raised his own eyebrows right back at him, placing two glasses firmly on the table.

“The sun is well over the yardarm by now, and I’m fucking bored, so shut up and take the drink. I’ve given you a glass, it’s all perfectly civilised,” he said, sitting down in his chair.

Flint snorted, but he reached out to pull the stopper from the bottle, pouring a generous measure into both of their cups before recorking it and setting it out of Silver’s reach.

“I’m hardly planning on getting drunk,” Silver grumbled at the silent slight, but Flint just ignored him with a twitch of his lips and reached for the plate of food between them.

***

Some hours later, as darkness fell around them and they sat drinking together by candlelight, Billy and his blue-eyed shadow returned to the house. He eyed them as he closed the door behind him, but refrained from commenting. Silver knew how it must look; the two of them close together, leaning back in their chairs in quiet companionship, drinks in hand, as though they had momentarily forgotten that they had just begun a war. In all honesty, Silver knew he had grown far too comfortable in the moment, able to forget briefly what had passed and what was coming and simply enjoy being in the company of his captain. The low orange light of the candles afforded a strange feeling of safety with the way it seemed to draw the walls in around them, and soften the edges of everything in the room, including Flint. Silver knew he had looked at Flint over the rim of his glass more than one too many times; watched his throat move as he drank and his fingers as they skated across the bread crumbs left on the plate, piling them up and then spreading them out and then piling them up again. Lulled by the secure embrace of the gloom and the heat of the alcohol in the pit of his belly, Silver watched, and he knew that Flint must be aware. Flint said nothing though, and so neither did he, and he allowed himself to believe for just a little while that Flint knew what he was thinking, what he was imagining, and that he was choosing to allow it.

“The horses are tied up outside,” Billy said eventually, when nobody else made any move to speak. “You really ought to head off.”

When Ben Gunn sat on the opposite side of the table to Silver, picking up a now slightly brown slice of apple from the plate and biting into it while looking between them curiously, Flint drained his glass and stood, lifting a candle from a wall sconce and moving off into the house. A few minutes later he returned, sliding a handful of books into an already full-looking leather satchel and with a quantity of black fabric tucked under his arm. He came to stand by Silver’s chair and, finishing the last of his own drink, Silver pushed himself up to join him. As he pulled on his jacket, Flint handed him a length of the black cloth, which he began wrapping about his head, looking in the mirror on the opposite wall, draping it across his face to obscure his features, while Flint did the same. With a silent nod to Billy, Flint crossed to the front door and Silver followed him out into the dark.


	2. "He who reads much and walks much, goes far and knows much."

Silver had little experience of riding on horseback, aside from one incidence of what he privately referred to as ‘youthful exuberance’ involving the theft of a clergyman’s pony, and the additional complication of finding a way to coordinate an iron foot with a stirrup made their progress slower than they would have liked. Luck, though, still seemed to be on their side, as they made it to the beach unharried and onto the launch which had been hidden amongst the swaying long grass of the sand dunes. They pushed out beyond the breakers, rowing in silence to the calmer deep water and over the horizon to where the Walrus sat waiting for them in the moonlight. As the call from the lookout went up, a rope was dropped to allow them to board.

Climbing aboard the ship in such a way was one of the myriad tasks involved in sailing which Silver now found presented a significant challenge to a one-legged man. Still, he had strong arms and he managed alright, and when he reached the rail at the top of the rope he found a familiar hand reaching out to him, Flint offering him wordless assistance, which he accepted gratefully. Once he had found his footing on the deck, Flint let go of his hand and turned to face Mr DeGroot, who was looking beleaguered. It seemed to be a permanent fixture on his face these days however, so Silver didn’t feel particularly concerned.

“The repairs are well under way, Captain,” he said, “but I think we’ve tempted fate long enough by remaining anchored here. Might I remind you what happened last time?”

Flint sighed as he pulled the wrap of dark cloth from his head. “Yes, alright, Mr DeGroot. Get us underway then,” he said, and he set off walking towards his cabin with a backward glance that Silver took as an invitation to follow. As he walked across the deck after him, removing his own headscarf, he was certain he heard one of the crew say something about _‘John the Giant’_ , and he supressed a smile. Ah. So Billy had been aboard then.

As Silver closed the door of the cabin behind him, Flint laid the strap of his leather satchel over his high-backed chair and set about lighting a handful of candles around the room, before reaching down into one of the drawers of his desk, lifting a bottle and holding it out in a silent offer. Silver swallowed, briefly wondering whether this wasn’t an even more dangerous idea than returning to that house had been, but he found his head nodding in acquiescence before he realised he was agreeing.

“I think you and I just might be the end of Mr DeGroot,” Flint said, with a sly smile, sitting in the broad chair and leaning back languorously. “If the fight ahead doesn’t kill him, the stress of dealing with us most certainly will.”

Silver sat slowly in the chair on the opposite side of the desk, dropping the unravelled black cloth in his hand on top of it, and smiled back, trying to ignore the little flip of his stomach. _You and I…Us._ “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps he’ll persevere and outlive the pair of us out of sheer spite. Or simply pitch himself overboard the next time we’re close to a port. One of the two.”

Flint huffed a laugh and opened the bottle in his hand, swigging directly from the neck of it before sliding it across the desk in Silver’s direction. Their fingers brushed briefly as Silver reached out to lift it to his own mouth, and he studiously avoided Flint’s eyes until he could be sure that his own gaze would not betray him. When he did look up again, Flint’s eyes were on him, appearing liquid black in the low light of the cabin. He swallowed thickly before pushing the bottle back in Flint’s direction, suddenly aware of the fact that the rim of the green glass, wet from his own mouth, was now being lifted to touch Flint’s. He could have sworn he saw a glimpse of his tongue touching it before it was enveloped by his lips.

He was going to go mad. Actually, certifiably mad. Perhaps he would join Mr DeGroot in flinging himself overboard, without waiting for them to make landfall before he did so; strap a cannonball to his bootstraps and sink into Poseidon’s dark embrace.

Swilling the rum around the bottle, Flint spoke, amusement in his voice. “So then. ‘John the Giant’?” It seemed that back in the comfort of his cabin and away from the weight of the memories in Miranda’s house, Flint’s mood had lifted. This was safe ground, where he was king.

Momentarily distracted from his thoughts of Flint’s mouth on something other than the bottle, Silver broke into a wide and genuine smile. “So it would seem. I have to say, I disagree with Billy. I think John the Giant has far more of a ring to it than Long John Silver, although what that says about me I’d rather not examine too closely. I suppose only time will tell which one sticks.”

Flint snorted. “You know what he’s doing, don’t you? In building you up this way? He’s creating an alternative to me,” he said, and though he was still smiling softly, his eyes looked melancholy. “Mr Gates would be most proud.”

“In the Doldrums,” said Silver, “it was Billy who persuaded me I needed to find a way to gain your trust, your respect. He’s been something of a puppet master for some time now, it would seem. I believe I underestimated him.”

“If Billy had his way,” Flint said, drinking from the bottle again, “I would be buried in a shallow grave somewhere outside of the Maroon camp. He didn’t plan for this.” He seemed unnervingly unconcerned by the thought.

“Perhaps,” Silver replied, taking the bottle which Flint proffered. “This was certainly not his initial plan, but its end remains largely the same. The pirates of New Providence are free once more, and released from the yoke of tyranny. Yours included.”

Flint’s lip curled into a mirthless smile. “I’ve always been the villain of the piece to him, although I suppose I can’t blame him for seeing it that way,” he said. 

“Indeed,” Silver replied, drinking and passing the bottle back over the table. “But I know the power of a story better than most, and I have to wonder whether he won’t come to regret placing so much influence in my hands, believing them to be safer than yours. Billy thinks he is creating a new villain, a character for me to inhabit, but I fear I’ve always been far more apt to play the part than he knows. I imagine this story might just get away from him, and the ending will not be of his design.”

Flint’s eyes were calculating as he listened to Silver speak and he ran his thumb around the lip of the bottle as he considered his reply. “Is that so?” he said, finally, drinking again and sliding the rum once more across to Silver. “So you think you will be his end as well as mine? I ought to warn him. Perhaps a Black Spot would do the trick?”

Silver narrowed his eyes. “You joke, but I know myself. Just as I now know you and just as I know him. There are many ways all of this could play out, but I do believe in what I said. Right now, my job would seem to be to ground you, and to offer the practical solutions to the problems your idealism encounters. Do you remember you once told me ‘ _the more those men need you, the more you need them’_ and the unexpected things such a need drives us to do? The men need me, Billy needs me, and it means I can bend them to my will where you cannot. But they’re not the only ones who need. _You_ need me, Captain, as I need you, and the more my influence grows the more that will be true, until one day we will have risen so high together that once one of us stops needing the other, for the one who takes the fall, the drop will be momentous.”

Flint was watching him, eyes dark and inscrutable, and the only movement he made was the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. Silver drank again, the alcohol roiling hot in his belly, before he slid the bottle away with a grimace.

Flint picked it up, raising it to his lips once more, but before he drank again he said, “Well. Should that day come, at least I will meet my end knowing I looked my successor in the eye and chose my fate.”

“What does that mean?” Silver replied.

“It means,” Flint said, “that you seem to think I have no choice in the way my story unfolds, or the way it will end. I disagree. You think you have steered me towards this partnership, and perhaps you have, but I have chosen to allow it. Whatever happens between us, do not make the mistake of assuming that I was powerless to make it otherwise.”

Silver wet his lips with his tongue, before realising he was breathing inelegantly through his open mouth, and closing it again. The way Flint spoke, he could almost believe that he knew the thoughts which had occupied his mind for the past few days; that he accepted them, even welcomed them. However, though their partnership was gaining a familiar and comfortable rhythm, it still felt at times balanced on a knife edge, and should Silver make a mistake in pursuing the wrong course the cost could be catastrophic. Opening his mouth to reply, without having any real idea of what he was going to say, Silver was cut off as Flint spoke again.

“Come here. I want to show you something,” he said.

Silver hesitated, before pushing himself to his feet, internalising a groan that threatened to escape as he placed his weight back on his tired leg. With one hand trailing on the surface of the desk for balance, Silver made his way around it, aware that the fug of the alcohol was not improving his lilting gait. When he reached the other side, he leaned back against the wood, taking the weight off his stump and unconsciously increasing the gap between him and Flint just a little. _Some sense of self-preservation remains then_ , he thought.

Flint was rummaging in the bag which he had slung over the back of his chair, and after a few moments he pulled a book out of it, checking the spine to see he had the right one, and then handing it to Silver.

“Have you read this?” he said.

Silver turned the book to read the spine. _Don Quixote_.

“I confess I have not,” he said.

Flint hummed thoughtfully. “If you are right in what you say, about the nature of our relationship as it stands, then you are in some way the Sancho to my Don Quixote; the pragmatist who tries to ground the dreamer in reality,” Flint said, lifting the bottle Silver had discarded entirely to his lips again. “As I should have been to Thomas,” he added softly. “Take it. Read it. I should like to know your thoughts on it.”

Silver nodded slowly, before placing the book on the desk behind him, but he made no move to head back to his chair. _Not so much self-preservation then._ Reaching out he lifted the bottle from Flint’s grip, drinking again despite knowing he had had enough, and weighing up his options. _‘You are the Sancho to my Don Quixote…as I should have been to Thomas’._ What the hell was that supposed to mean? He was close enough that he was able to see the freckles on Flint’s temples, just visible in the low light. He was stroking his hand over his beard, watching Silver drink, with an odd look on his face, as though he was weighing something up in his mind and coming to a decision. It was most unnerving.

“What?” Silver said, when the scrutiny became unbearable.

Flint simply shook his head, before standing up and crowding his space, taking the bottle from his hand and raising it to his own lips once more. And his tongue; there was no mistaking it this time, not from such close quarters, his tongue had definitely touched the glass before his lips did. Was he toying with him deliberately? Swallowing, Flint recorked the bottle and set it down on the desk beside the book, resting his hand on the wood with their fingers inches apart. Silver could feel the heat radiating out from his skin, and Flint stayed standing where he was, as though in a wordless challenge. It was too much. Slowly, his heart skipping, he edged his fingers closer to Flint’s until his little finger touched Flint’s forefinger, his fingertip stroking over his nail, and the message was unmistakable and irreversible.

At the touch of his finger, Flint’s moustache twitched upwards with a smile. “Finally,” he said.

“Finally?” Silver repeated, his voice sounding hoarse.

“You’re not as subtle as you think you are. The way you’ve been looking at me all day...since you asked about Thomas. Far longer than that, really, I only wasn’t sure what it meant until then. I wondered how long it would take you to do something about it,” Flint said, looking sly.

“You shit,” Silver breathed, and Flint grinned wolfishly. “You could have said something earlier, when we were guaranteed hours alone.”

“I could have, but I didn’t,” Flint said. “It was Miranda’s house. She…I know that she didn’t want me to be alone, that she would have approved of this, in her way. But that was her house. This is mine. Besides, I wanted you to decide.”

Silver trailed his fingers over Flint’s, before taking his hand and using it to pull him closer. Flint allowed himself to be tugged towards him, until they stood toe to toe, his face inches away. It felt like he was looming. Finally, Flint lifted his hand and slid his fingers into Silver’s hair, cradling the side of his head and pulling him into a kiss. Silver’s stomach fluttered at the touch, and to his desperate embarrassment a keening noise of want escaped his throat, but Flint only laughed and slipped his tongue into his open mouth, drinking him in.

Flint’s free hand moved to rest on his hip, as Silver’s arms wrapped around his waist to cling to his back. Tightening his arms, Silver pulled Flint closer until he was standing between his legs, which were bent as he rested his weight on the table. Silver could hardly believe this was happening and for a moment he wondered if he was lost in another daydream, but as Flint’s hand twisted in his hair he knew he could never have imagined something that felt this good in such startling detail. The fantasies of the past few days were nothing but a mirage conjured by a starving man compared to this.

Breaking the kiss with an obscene wet sound, Silver looked up at Flint whose eyes were black as pitch except for the flickering orange reflections of the lit candles. It was demonic, and terrifying, but Silver knew it was too late now to save himself from drowning in those fathomless depths.  And even if he could, he didn’t want to. Let him be condemned, and Flint along with him, if that was the cost of having this. It was worth their ruin. Still, the choice was not his alone, and he felt compelled to speak.

“You’re quite certain?” he said. “Everything I said still holds true. The higher we go, the further there is to fall.”

Flint nodded, his eyes frighteningly unguarded. “I’m tired of being alone,” he replied simply, quietly, and it was enough.

He leaned in again, ghosting his lips across Silver’s, the course hairs of their beards brushing, and his hot rum-soaked breath overwhelmed his senses. As he made to kiss him again, Silver placed a hand on his chest, his other dragging around from his back, down his stomach and gripping onto his belt.

“Lock the goddamn door,” he said, his voice low and full of promise.

The smile that graced Flint’s face at his words was wide and feral, and Silver’s stomach lurched again, heat pooling in his groin. Flint leaned in and sucked Silver’s bottom lip into his mouth in a kiss that was more teeth than lips, and then moved off to bolt the door. Silver felt suddenly cold at the loss of Flint’s body from his grasp, but he took the moment to draw in a deep, steadying breath, before turning and walking over to the bed, which hung suspended from the ceiling in the corner of the room. Shedding his jacket as he went, he sank onto it, leaning down to remove his one boot, then hesitating briefly before rucking up the left leg of his trousers and unfastening the leather straps of his false limb. Looking up as he laid it on the floor, he saw Flint taking off his own boots, followed by his jacket, which he flung over the back of the chair Silver had been occupying.

Coming to stand over him, Flint tipped his head up with a finger under his chin, and he leant down to kiss him again, surprisingly gently. Pulling away, he unbuckled his belt, dropping it to the floor, and then untucked his shirt from his breeches. Silver followed suit, pulling his own shirt off over his head and letting it fall to join Flint’s belt, along with his own. He reached out and grasped Flint’s shirt, using it to pull him down onto the bed beside him; he couldn’t stand as tall as Flint with just the one leg to balance on, and he was beginning to feel dwarfed.

“You’re towering,” he said by way of explanation, as Flint settled next to him.

Flint smiled, reaching out to trace the lines of his collarbones with the tips of his fingers. “Towering? Over John the Giant?” he said, and Silver used the grip he still had on his shirt to pull him into a silencing kiss.

Flint’s hands slid into his hair again, threading through his curls and twisting them around his fingers, and that was really something Silver could get used to. He slipped his hands under Flint’s shirt, sliding them up his warm stomach and feeling the soft hairs beneath his palms. The thin fabric suddenly feeling like an intolerable barrier, Silver gripped the hem of the shirt and pulled it upwards, his mouth only leaving Flint’s for the split second it took to get the shirt over his head, before their lips collided again. His skin was tingling and there were goosebumps on his arms making the fine hairs there stand upright. He drew back with a shiver, and Flint placed a hand in the centre of his chest, pushing him backwards until he was lying on the bed, leaning back on his elbows, his good leg still hanging over the side.

Silver sucked in another deep breath, trying to calm his nerves and slow the thrumming beat of his pulse. Slowly, carefully, Flint crawled over him until he was kneeling on all fours, hovering above him. Silver looked up at him, his breathing heavy, waiting for Flint to make the next move, the anticipation sending his heart rattling even harder against his ribs until he could barely stand it, but Flint simply stayed where he was, watching Silver with dark eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” Silver whispered, finally.

“Have you done this before? With another man?” Flint replied.

Silver swallowed, not sure which answer Flint was expecting or hoping for. “Yes,” he breathed. “But not like this. Not in a bed, and not with someone I-” He cut himself off abruptly. “Not with anybody whose name I particularly cared to remember the next day.”

Flint nodded. “I won’t push you,” he said quietly, surprising Silver. “I know you think me domineering, but in this, I’ll let you lead, if it’s what you want.”

“I wouldn’t mind a little domineering,” Silver whispered back, raising an eyebrow, and he moved his elbows out from behind him, lying back and reaching up to draw Flint down on top of him.

As Flint brought his hips down to rest against his, Silver lifted his dangling leg up onto the bed, resting his foot flat against the blankets for a moment, before reconsidering and hooking his knee across the back of Flint’s thigh, drawing him even closer. Flint groaned as their bodies pressed together, leaning his head down to rest his forehead against Silver’s, taking a breath with his eyes closed before he drew him into another searing kiss.

It was overwhelming, the heat and the weight of Flint on top of him; the feeling of his mouth, his tongue, licking and sucking; the undeniable press of his hard cock against Silver’s own through the layers of their trousers; the scratch of the hairs on his chest and his belly against Silver’s over-sensitive skin. Overwhelming it might have been, but Silver needed more. The hands which were resting on Flint’s sides, anchoring him in place, slid down until they rested against his arse, and Silver pressed his fingers into the swell of muscle, pulling Flint closer still. He gained a loud moan for his troubles, and he couldn’t help the smile that spread across his face as Flint broke away from his mouth to lean their foreheads together again, breathing heavily.

Grinding down into him, Flint elicited a moan from Silver in turn, and he lifted one of his hands to rest on Silver’s throat, tilting his head up so that he could get his mouth to his skin. The rasp of his beard on Silver’s neck sent shivers running through him, and he lifted one of his hands to wrap his arm around the small of Flint’s back, a taut cable holding him in place.

“What do you want?” Flint said, his lips against Silver’s neck just below his ear. His voice was low and coarse. “Tell me what you want.”

“I-anything?” Silver murmured in response.

Flint lifted his head to look into Silver’s eyes. “Anything.” He hooked a finger through the necklace Silver still wore, using it to pull him upwards, and he pressed a soft kiss to his lips, waiting for an answer.

Silver worried his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment, before he said in a quiet breath, “Your mouth. I want your mouth on me.”

Flint smiled, kissed him again, and got back up onto his knees, his fingers moving to work at the fastenings of Silver’s trousers. When Flint had unbuttoned them, Silver lifted his hips to help him slide them down his legs, and he averted his eyes from the place where his left leg stopped short. He had hoped Flint wouldn’t notice, but he wrapped his hand around the back of Silver’s knee, lifting his leg up to place a lingering kiss on his kneecap, before settling himself in between Silver’s legs.

Silver’s breath stuttered as Flint trailed wet open-mouthed kisses down his belly, while sliding a hand up his thigh, before he took him into his mouth all at once. Silver nearly arched clean off the bed, so taken by surprise was he at the wet heat which enveloped him, but Flint placed a steadying hand low on his stomach, and reached up with his other to twine his fingers with Silver’s. Silver reached down with his other hand and rested it on the back of Flint’s head, his fingernails scratching gently through the short hairs there, and he held fast as he was worked over again and again by Flint’s mouth and tongue.

Silver had had mouths on him before; the odd whore, a few pretty girls he had charmed, and one or two pretty boys, but this was somehow different. For a man so dangerous, so bull-headed, to willingly bend his knees and worship him in this way, it was…everything. For someone who had spent so much time alone, Flint certainly knew what he was doing, and had Silver any corner of his mind to spare to consider it he might have wondered where Flint had learned to use his mouth like this. As it was, however, he was able to do nothing but give himself over to the sensation of it and focus on remembering to breathe.

“Captain…” he moaned, and Flint’s hand tightened reflexively in his, his other squeezing his thigh gently.

Flint lifted his head, Silver’s cock sliding from between his swollen lips, and in a hoarse voice he whispered, “ _James._ ”

“ _James,_ ” Silver agreed, and Flint returned to his ministrations.

It only took a few more minutes before Silver found himself close to peaking, and he tightened his fingers against Flint’s, keening out a warning of, “ _James, I’m close”_.

Flint squeezed his fingers once more, a silent acknowledgement and, as Silver came with a loud groan and his captain’s name on his tongue, he swallowed around him. With a wet pop he lifted his head and crawled up to lie next to Silver, resting a hand on his chest and watching his face intently as he lay boneless, trying to catch his breath. Silver turned his face towards him, raising a sluggish arm to place his hand on the side of Flint’s face, thumb stroking his beard. Even in the low light he could see how slick and blood-flushed Flint’s mouth looked, and the temptation to know what he tasted like was too great, so he leant forward to pull him into a lazy kiss. The rum was still there in his mouth, but there was now too a bitter tang on Flint’s tongue which was not wholly unpleasant. As he pulled away again, Flint wore a look of surprised contentment. 

Slowly regaining his faculties, Silver brushed the back of the hand which was not on Flint’s face over the front of his breeches. Flint’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply, Silver’s knuckles dragging down the length of his half-hard cock.

“My turn,” Silver whispered. There was a look in Flint’s eyes which seemed to say ‘ _you don’t have to if you don’t want to_ ’, but Silver was glad he refrained from saying it aloud. He wanted to do this, wanted to know what it felt like to have another person who meant so much to you in some way inside you. He imagined it felt rather different to rushed handjobs in dark corners with nameless deckhands.

Pushing Flint onto his back and making his way down his body, Silver made a point of tasting his skin from his throat all the way to the waistband of his breeches, which he slowly unbuttoned. His skin tasted like salt, as though the sea had seeped into his pores and made him more part of the ocean than man. The superstitious little corner of Silver's brain, which logic usually quashed, piped up that perhaps it was true; perhaps Flint was a sea phantom, a conjuration of the deep, not a wraith at all but a siren. But no, Flint was as much flesh and blood as he was; Silver could feel his hot pulse below his tongue as he licked his way along a vein in the groove of his hip. The sea leeched the warmth out of you, even in these tropical waters; Flint burned hot as the sun, his fingertips searing memories into the skin of Silver’s back that would brand him until his dying day.

He considered briefly the best way to approach this, knowing that kneeling for any length of time would take its toll on his shortened leg, and in the end he decided to roll Flint back onto his side and lie up against him. Flint was watching his progress with hooded eyes, and he made no sounds of protest as Silver encouraged him to move where he wanted him, only followed the pull of his hands willingly. Pushing the fabric of Flint’s breeches down his legs, he ran his fingers through the thick dusting of ginger hairs on his thighs. Casting the fabric to the floor, he wriggled down the bed until he was faced with Flint’s cock and, after the smallest of hesitations, he leaned forward and licked a wet stripe from base to tip. Flint drew in a sharp breath and his hands flew to Silver’s hair, carding through it and twisting it in handfuls, pulling loose the leather tie which had held half of it back. Looking up, Silver made eye contact with Flint, watching his reaction as he wrapped a hand around the base of his cock and slowly sucked it into his mouth. Flint’s eyes flickered closed and, as Silver began to move, his breathing grew heavier and he chewed on his lip to stifle his moans.

It was a strange feeling, Silver decided, having one’s mouth so full of someone else, but he liked it, the feeling of power it gave him and the sense of indescribable closeness. Trying his best to emulate what he had felt Flint do to him, Silver sucked and licked at Flint’s hot flesh, his hand covering what his mouth could not, until the cabin was filled with the sounds of slick sucking and quiet gasps. Despite his lack of experience, it seemed to be working, as Flint moaned above him when he looked up to try to see his face and their eyes met.

 _“John…”_ Flint groaned, his hands tightening in Silver’s hair to a painful degree.

Silver only hummed in response and kept doing what he was doing until he felt Flint spill hot into his mouth. Before he could think, he was swallowing, and from somewhere above him he heard Flint breathe _“Oh Jesus”_.

Crawling back up the bed feeling thoroughly pleased with himself, Silver swung his leg over the edge and stood precariously, leaning forward until his hands rested on the desk and he could reach for the abandoned bottle of rum. Pushing back off the desk, he landed inelegantly in the bed, causing it to swing back into the wall with a thump. Flint was watching him with heavy-lidded eyes, and Silver simply shrugged and smiled, uncorking the bottle and taking a swig to chase the bitter taste from his mouth. Lying back down he offered the bottle to Flint who, while sitting up, accepted it, drinking and then standing to place it back in the desk drawer out of Silver’s reach.

Silver tutted softly. “Spoilsport,” he said.

Flint gave him a withering look, but it was followed by a smile and he returned to the bed, pushing Silver across it gently until he could lie down next to him, dragging a blanket up and over their legs. Silver shifted closer to him, resting his head on Flint’s chest and running the fingers of his left hand along the length of a long diagonal scar which was carved there.

“Is this from the fight with Singleton?” he murmured.

Flint looked down, before he nodded. “It is,” he said.

Silver hesitated, before speaking again. “I think that fight was the first moment I saw the lengths to which you were prepared to go to achieve what you had set your mind to,” he said. “I didn’t know then what your plan was, or just how involved I would become, but I think some part of me knew, even then, that the day I joined your crew would be the day my life changed forever, and not only because of the prospect of wealth beyond measure.”

“Always so perceptive,” Flint teased.

Silver smiled at him, before going on. “It’s true. Even when I wanted to walk away, even when…even when I betrayed you, I think I knew in my heart that I would not be able to escape your influence unaffected. From the moment I first boarded this ship, everything changed. You said it was your home, this ship. It has become something of the same to me.”

Flint was silent for a time, but eventually he turned his head to lock eyes with Silver. “Do you regret it?” he asked.

“Joining your crew? Sometimes,” Silver replied honestly. “This was not the life that I wanted. But joining you? I cannot regret that, even with what it has already cost. What it has cost both of us. I think, even with what it might cost us in the days to come, I cannot regret joining you.”

Flint was watching his face, his eyes intense, and overwhelmed by the sincerity of the moment Silver had to look away, back down to his chest where his fingers were still mapping the shape of that scar.

They lay in silence for a long while, until Silver assumed that Flint had nothing more to say. He settled himself more comfortably against Flint’s chest, his arm wrapping around his waist, but as he felt himself beginning to drift off to sleep he heard Flint murmur, “I cannot regret it either”.

***

Silver awoke as the first pink rays of dawn crept in through the wide windows of the captain’s cabin. He found Flint’s arm draped across his waist, a leg hooked over his, face close to his ear, his breathing soft and steady. Turning his head carefully, Silver regarded him. He looked so different in sleep; younger, freer, a man without burden. Silver could see clearly now, in the pale light, a small crescent moon tattooed on his upper arm, nestled amongst the freckles that seemed to cover every inch of Flint’s skin, clustered more darkly here and there where the sun had worked its effects on him. His shoulders and his forearms, his temples and cheekbones were the most generously dusted, and Silver traced the clusters with his eyes, mapping them, looking for patterns. Here on Flint’s collarbone was Cassiopeia; there on his temple the Plough; Orion sitting just below the hollow of his throat. He was the heavens made flesh, and Silver barely dared to breathe lest he break the spell.

Reaching out, Silver ghosted a fingertip over the little tattoo, wondering when it had been applied and by whom. It seemed almost incongruous on this strange, enigmatic man wrapped around him. Flint’s brow twitched as Silver’s finger brushed against the hairs of his arm, and he opened his eyes slowly. It seemed to take a few moments for him to place where he was and who it was he was pressed up against, and Silver held his breath while he waited for comprehension to dawn on him. What if Flint regretted it? What if he looked to his face expecting to see Miranda’s warm brown eyes, or Thomas’s fair hair, and was disappointed to find neither? What if, on finding instead the man who now held the power to take everything from him should he so desire, he realised the profound depths of his mistake and felt only resentment? But as Flint’s eyes focussed on him, they remained soft and gentle, and he tightened his arm around Silver’s waist, his thumb brushing across his skin.

“Good morning,” Silver whispered.   

“Morning,” came the reply.

Rolling onto his back, Flint sat up, wincing at what Silver could only assume was the dull ache of a hangover behind his eyes. There was more than one reason why Silver had chosen to remain lying still. Kicking off the blanket and standing up, Flint reached for his breeches and shirt, pulling them on, and walking to the door of the cabin and unlocking it. Silver was momentarily confused, and just a touch hurt, before Flint said, “I’ll go and get some water. I’ll be back shortly.”

As the door closed behind Flint, Silver risked sitting up. The pinching ache in his head was there, but it wasn’t as bad as he had feared. Looking around the room, his eyes settled on the leather-bound copy of _Don Quixote_ lying where he had left it on the desk the night before. Balancing again on his one remaining foot, he leant over to swipe the book from the desk, before settling back into the bed with it. He had barely made it a page into the introduction before Flint returned, a jug of water and two mugs in hand. Flint set the jug on the desk, filling the mugs, and passing one over to Silver as he sat back on the bed.

Silver closed the book as he took the water, and Flint took the opportunity to lift it from his unresisting fingers. Downing his water in one, Flint set his mug on the floor and settled back against the pillow, opening the book and flicking through to the first chapter.

 _“In a village of La Mancha,”_ he read aloud, _“the name of which I have no desire to call to mind, there lived not long since one of those gentlemen that keep a lance in the lance-rack...”_

Silver leaned on one elbow, listening to Flint’s low voice as he drank. When he finished his water, he reached over Flint to place his own mug on the floor, and then laid his head against his chest. Flint’s voice rumbled beneath his ear, and the hand which was not holding the book found its way into his hair, fingers rubbing back and forth across his scalp in a soothing rhythm. Lulled by the sensation, and the sound of Flint’s voice, Silver found his eyelids drooping and sleep creeping back up on him, the words Flint was reading washing over him without sinking in.

“Hey. Are you listening?” Flint was squeezing the back of his neck, drawing him back to wakefulness, and Silver could hear the teasing note in his voice which was so new to him, but so very welcome.  

“Mm, no, not really,” Silver mumbled in reply, forcing his eyes open to look up at Flint through a curtain of curls.

Flint shook his head, stroking the hair off his forehead, and resting the book on his stomach, with a finger between the pages to keep his place. “I told you, there may be lessons to be learned here,” he said.

“Do enlighten me then,” Silver replied through a yawn, rubbing his eyes and leaning up onto his elbow once more.

“Last night, you said that you and I had grown to need one another,” Flint said, watching his hand as he twisted a long curl around his forefinger. “And you were worried about what that would mean, what it might drive us to do, and the way it might end. I know what everyone else thinks, what I suspect you think: that this war is unwinnable. That I am the dangerous dreamer who tilts at windmills and doesn’t know that he is bound to lose. I know it, and I know the odds, but I intend to fight anyway. And I intend to win.” His eyes fixed back on Silver’s as he said the last, burning with the fire that seemed such a fundamental part of his being.

Silver looked down at him, his brain still foggy, considering how to reply. “But if the cost is your life?” he said, eventually. “Is it truly worth so much loss to fight for such an uncertain end? I do fear what will become of you and me. I fear it not only because I know myself, but because I know you, and I do not know how to stop you should you charge sword-in-hand to your own destruction if you truly believe it is the only way to change the world for the better. And in the face of that destruction, I'm not sure I won't decide to save myself at the cost of everything else.”

Flint blinked slowly, his gaze moving away and falling on the leather volume which still rested closed on his stomach. “A little way into the book,” he said, “Don Quixote’s library is burned in a vain effort to remove the source of his irrational idealism, and to curb his dreams of the chivalrous world which were not reality. The author, in this scene, saves his own novel, _La Galatea,_ from destruction, citing that though the story had merit, without its concluding part its worth could not be fairly judged. An unfinished story is always in some sense an unknown and fickle thing.”

Silver frowned, taking in his words. “So what are you saying? That it is yet too early in our story to judge its merit? To know whether the ends will justify the means?” he said, looking up to meet Flint’s eyes again.

“Or whether the means will justify the ends,” he said, raising an eyebrow and nodding contemplatively. “Either way, our story isn’t over yet, and I won’t worry about the epilogue when there is still so much to be told before we get there.”

Silver pursed his lips. “You are a fucking riddle,” he murmured, staring into the depths of Flint’s eyes, searching for answers that would help him make sense of this new path they appeared to be agreeing to take together.

Flint simply smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling gently, before he opened the book again and flicked through it until he found the page he was looking for. Settling his hand into Silver’s hair he pulled him back down to lie against his chest, and then he began to read aloud once more. _“Do you see over yonder, friend Sancho, thirty or forty hulking giants? I intend to do battle with them and slay them.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oh my god, you guys, your comments. I'm going to cry!)


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